


Keep Me Warm

by taormina



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-07-19 00:51:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7337956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taormina/pseuds/taormina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Gary finds four very, very different uses for Mark’s scarves.</p><p>A collection of separate stories that range anywhere between fluffy and smutty. Updated every two weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Use One: Restriction

When Gary entered Take That’s shared dressing room an hour before show time, Mark was already wearing the sexiest, most frustrating outfit a man could ever have picked out: tight grey trousers that _perfectly_ showed off his pert arse, a black sleeveless shirt, shiny black boots, and — here it comes; a thin, patterned scarf that he’d bought himself. It was the perfect attire.  

The scarf, Gary saw, was made of silk. Its edges were smooth; no fringes had been applied to it. Expensiveness was obvious in every stitch. Its colour was bright but not flashy, and the thing was expertly tied round Mark’s delicious little neck as though Mark had spent an age trying to get it right. As such, Gary instantly felt drawn to it, like the material was a mark, a sign, a cross on a page; kiss me here. Place your hands right there. And God, did Gary wish he would.

‘Christ, I wish you’d wear those things in bed,’ Gary groaned. It had already slipped his mind that he was supposed to get dressed.

Mark looked at himself in the full-length mirror. In his innocence, he couldn’t quite tell what Gary was talking about. ‘You mean these shirts? I dunno ‘bout them meself, they’re a bit cold without a jacket on.’ He cast a furtive look at the clothes rack behind him. It was filled with one jacket after another, some uglier than others. ‘D’you reckon I should put one on? The Gucci one looks all right. Bit long, though.’

‘No, you dope, I mean those scarves of yours. Lemme look at you,’ said Gary, and he carefully grabbed the end of Mark’s short scarf and pulled his bandmate closer. But instead of looking at the soft fabric in his hands and trying to decipher what made the bloody thing worth so much, he looked at the way it was loosely wrapped around Mark’s skin and moaned softly. ‘God, they’re _obscene_ ,’ he added, more to himself than to Mark.

‘Oh. I _see_ ,’ said Mark, who had caught Gary’s drift by now. He watched, transfixed, how Gary slowly moved his hands up his scarf, towards his neck. Instantly, the mood in the room had changed; it crackled with sexuality. If someone walked into them now, they might not believe that Gary was only trying to get a good look at Mark’s outfit . . . ( _Howard_ wouldn’t, anyway.) ‘And why would _that_ be, Mr. Barlow?’ Mark asked, feigned innocence dripping off of him because he was a fucking tease like that. He already knew exactly what Gary wanted; he wanted it now, here, in this dressing room.

‘You _know_ why.’

Gary slowly, carefully pulled at the ends of the scarf so that it wrapped itself tighter round Mark’s neck and watched a dark, sinful shadow pass over Mark’s face. It was a look of arousal; of sin; of knowing full well how utterly _wrong_ and dangerous this was and yet being incredibly titillated by it. This was precisely what Mark desired, and he didn’t even realise he did a minute ago.

Spurred on by the deep, aroused exhale that left Mark’s lips next, Gary pulled the scarf even closer until Mark felt his own heartbeat pulsate urgently against the fabric. His throat felt dry and his neck, strained, dangerously tight, and yet Mark wanted nothing more than to feel — _oh_ , for just a second —

Fuck, Gary could take him right there, and he wouldn’t even mind. He wouldn’t mind being tied up and pinned down like he deserved; to feel Gary’s hands on his neck as he was filled and taken right to the edge —

Mark’s head was starting to feel light, like he was flying and Gary’s large, soft hands were the only thing that kept him rooted and in place, and what didn’t help was the effect Gary’s voice had on him and his tense body next:

‘I wish I could fuck you, Mark. Right here,’ rasped Gary, and he gently but dominantly pushed Mark against the rack full of brand new tour outfits with Mark’s scarf still in the palm of his hand. ‘With that bloody scarf still round your neck to keep you in line.’

Gary almost thought he could feel his cock twitch when Mark moaned obediently. Yes. _Yes_.

‘Yes, right here,’ Mark moaned before he went in for a kiss and had every single piece of clothing removed from him — all but one.


	2. Use Two: Recovery

Mark seemed perfectly fine when he did the _Flaws_ choreography in Glasgow yesterday, and even better when he did his thing for _Shine_ later in the afternoon _._ Vocals, moves, hand gestures to the audience; everything was on point. They were in perfect condition, all three of them. If this wasn’t going to be their best ever tour, nothing would.

Then Mark must’ve gone out to greet fans in the evening and gotten caught up in some short-lived snowstorm, for the next day he looked like a right mess. His hair was ruffled, but not in a good way, and a persistent red flush had crept over his cheeks — a flush that unfortunately had nothing to do with how _hot_ Gary looked when he knocked on Mark’s hotel door in the morning. (Clearly having just been to the hotel gym, Gary was wearing grey jogging trousers and an obscenely tight blue shirt that showed off more muscles than it had any right to.)

A quick inspection proved that Mark was not feverish; he just had to sneeze a lot, is all, and whenever the air from the half-open window rolled over his sheet-covered bed he’d shiver like a leaf. His voice sounded croaked, but it usually did at seven in the morning. While his body felt heavy and weary, it was not out of shape. Tomorrow’s performance would probably not suffer. All Mark needed was a good rest and a lot of love from his sort-of-boyfriend.

‘I wish you’d stay inside when there’s fans waiting at the entrance, mate,’ said Gary five minutes later. He had more or less ordered Mark to get back into bed, and all Mark could do was scrunch his nose and do as he was told while Gary made them both tea. (Jasmine green, Mark’s favourite.) ‘It’s about one degree out there.’

‘I couldn’t just let them stand there, could I, Gaz? They’d been there all night.’

‘It’s not like they’ve never seen your face before.’

Mark made a movement to take a stubborn, demonstrative sip of the tea that had been handed to him, but another chill ran over his back as he did; he shivered, and the teacup rattled pathetically in his hands. Gary saw Mark putting the cup back on his nightstand.

‘You sure you don’t want me to get you extra sheets? They’re very thin, these ones,’ Gary noted, and he balled up a layer of thin white sheet into his fist as though proving a point. Clearly the hotel hadn’t counted on the weather taking such a cold turn in bloody April. ‘Can’t even sleep naked in me own bed like I usually do tonight, it’s so cold.’

Mark shrugged. ‘‘m fine.’ He shivered again. ‘Really.’

Judging by the persistent blush on Mark’s nose he was far from ‘fine’, so Gary quickly scanned the room for extra pillows or blankets and only found one of Mark’s thick wool scarves carefully folded on top of his travel case. The rest of Mark’s clothes had carefully been stowed away in the room’s available cupboards and wardrobes. Contrastively, Howard had mostly kept his clothes in his suitcase whereas Gary’s were strewn across the room like sad heaps of cotton confetti on a venue floor. Only Gary’s precious laptop was in perfect order.

Wanting to make Mark extra comfortable, Gary gingerly picked up the scarf and draped it over Mark’s shoulders like a light, feathery cape before kissing Mark on his forehead and eliciting a pleasant little moan from his crush’s lips. He looked instantly warmer.

‘Better?’

‘Lil’ bit. Be better if you stayed here, though,’ Mark said sheepishly. His own words coloured the rest of his face a shy, almost inviting red, but Gary wasn’t falling for those clever tricks of Mark’s this morning. If they ended up finally spending the night or morning together, Gary wanted it to be when Mark wasn’t full of paracetamol in the middle of a nationwide Take That tour. And Gary hadn’t brought anything with him anyway.

Gary gave Mark another kiss on the forehead, put his empty teacup on the nightstand and got up from the bed. He was leaving. The way he took out his phone and checked his messages said as much; sick colleague or not, Gary still had a band/musical/tour/regal birthday party to take care of. ‘And catch a cold too? No way, mate — we’d have to have Dougie perform every single song on his own if I did!’

Mark let out a weak laugh. ‘He’d _hate_ that.’

‘Wouldn’t be the end of the world though. He could ask Rob and Jay to join him for the night. Be a very tall band, that.’

‘Not as handsome, though.’

Gary caught Mark’s meaningful stare, then went red and stared in the general direction of the door before snapping out of whatever thought he’d gotten lost in. ‘Anyway, promise you’ll spend the day in bed? I can have room service get you breakfast if you want. Scrambled eggs? You like scrambled eggs.’

Mark pulled the sheets and pillows and his own scarf around his shoulders tighter and nodded. ‘Promise,’ he acquiesced. He didn’t look as cold now. ‘And breakfast sounds good.’

‘Brilliant. Check in on you again at twelve?’

‘Erm, yeah. Thanks, Gaz.’

‘No problem, mate,’ Gary said before turning off the lights and leaving Mark to ponder on his own how spine-tinglingly good Gary’s hands felt on him when he put that scarf round his back. Perhaps having a cold wasn’t so bad after all.


	3. Use Three: Reminiscence

Mark always folded his clothes before sex. He was careful, mostly. He liked things slow and gentle, and preferably on the floor. He also never made a mess, and so it came as a bit of a surprise when Gary found one of his boyfriend’s scarves carelessly draped over his sofa like a big red flag. It was one of Mark’s favourites.

The scarf was fluffy, crimson with just a fashionable tinge of dotted blue, and perfectly warm. It was a good look, and Mark knew it; he wore the thing all the time, even when the weather had long passed wintry conditions. Maybe he just liked the soft touch of it.

Clearly, Mark must have been in quite a hurry when he got dressed on his own that morning and left. He hadn’t even said goodbye. Perhaps he was feeling a little ashamed that last night’s writing session had led to yet more great sex – about the fifth time since they ‘accidentally’ ended up in bed together a month or two ago and became more than friends – but Gary couldn’t see why he should. Last night was amazing. There was very little he regretted about it. In his mind, regrets were reserved only for missed opportunities in music and theatre.  

Perhaps he ought to hop into his car and bring the scarf back to Mark. Mark would appreciate that, he thought. Maybe he’d even repay him.

Gingerly Gary picked up the scarf and allowed the ribbed, wool material to slip through his hand. It still felt warm, and the idea to hand-deliver the thing to Mark’s door completely left his mind. Instead, he felt the strange, guilty urge to softly press his nose against the wool. He did so, and he was hit by a plethora of scents: the heavenly, sinful aroma of Mark’s cologne; the scent of Mark’s skin; and the soft fruitiness of his gorgeous head of hair.

But more worryingly, Gary was instantly reminded of the amazing night they spent together. Christ, what a good time they had.  

The scent made him recall the way Mark buried his face into Gary’s neck as they fucked; the knitted wool in his hands brought back the memory of hastily taking Mark’s jumper off and pulling his lover on top of him; and the fringed trim at both ends of the scarf reminded him how beautiful and nervous Mark looked when he got there, his hands fumbling with his favourite scarf as though he had no idea what to do with them. Two months on, and Mark still got nervous. Two months on, and every time they made love still felt like the first. Mark had been wearing a scarf that day too.

The memories were almost too much to bear, so who could blame Gary when he let himself be directed to his sofa, scarf round his neck, and slipped his hand into his pyjama bottoms?

He knew it was wrong, dirty, but there was no denying of how good it felt to smell Mark on him, to have Mark’s scarf round his own neck like Mark had put it there and _marked_ him. Gary was Mark’s. Mark was his. Every touch, every stroke, every discovery of Gary’s own body that morning was just another reliving of the night they’d had.

Gary pulled down his trousers a little and lifted up his black, tight shirt. The ends of Mark’s scarf tickled his belly as if it was Mark himself doing it. Already, a pleasant feeling was bubbling in the pit of his stomach. Again, the mere thought of fucking Mark and being fucked by him was pushing him close to a point of no return; he imagined taking Mark with only his scarf on, and a sad little moan escaped his lips as he twisted his wrist.

He could still stop this. Take the scarf back to Mark’s. Pretend the thought of Mark wasn’t the one thing that aroused him most.

Then another waft of cologne hit him, and Gary was off; cum rained on his belly and stained his black shirt and only barely missed Mark’s scarf. His shirt was ruined, but the scarf still looked as beautiful as it did when Mark wore it.


	4. Use Four: Reaction

Gary wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up in Mark’s bedroom with a silk chiffon scarf covering his eyes, but he guessed that was his and Mark’s kind of thing now. Mark loved this stuff. Got off from it. Cherished it.

Mark often claimed this was one of his greatest fantasies (that, and having kinky backstage sex after a sweaty performance of _Sure_ or _Relight My Fire_ ; one time they actually did it and nearly ended up getting caught in the act by their manager of all people), so what could Gary do but fulfil one of his boyfriend’s biggest kinks? That’s what he was there for, after all. After they were done, _then_ they could do the cuddling and kissing Gary so loved. But now, scarves.

In theory there wasn’t very much to enjoy about being in this sort of compromising position. It was all rather embarrassing to be honest; Gary saw absolutely nothing. He heard, well, not much — for someone who once woke up the neighbours with his loud, high-pitched moaning, Mark was being very quiet today. He could very well have left the room and decided to play a prank on Gary.

And judging by the soft sound of rustling fabric, Gary was about to be tied to the soft bedroom chair he was sitting on. That meant there wouldn’t be much touching until Mark told him so.

Gary loved touching Mark.

Christ, did he love it. Mark’s body was hard and sweaty and hairless and nothing Gary ever thought it would be. It curved in all the right places. Its skin was flawless but for the places where Gary had put his nails and drawn blood. The only imperfection was the old, faded impression of a dolphin on the side of Mark’s belly, where Gary had licked him to perfection so, so many times.

Touching Mark was a real fucking thrill. It was a privilege; the highlight of one’s day. And then when Mark decided to touch Gary right back and send him right to the edge he so badly desired? Fucking brilliant.

Clearly Mark thought so too. He dropped whatever he was about to tie Gary up with (more scarves), and instead Gary heard the welcome sound of a belt being unbuckled. What followed next was pop of a button, and then soft shuffling as Mark pulled down his tight grey trousers.

This lad wasn’t playing.

The chair was high, but not impossible for Mark to clamber onto like a slutty sex kitten. He successfully climbed on top of Gary’s lap and authoritatively straddled the blonde songwriter’s legs with his own, marking his territory. He did an extremely good job at avoiding the tented area in Gary’s trousers.

Soon Gary felt one hand on the back of his head. It felt dominant. In charge. Gary knew it heralded a blow job.

He hoped Mark was about to remove the scarf from his face and allow him to see his boyfriend’s hot, taut, glistening body.

He had no such luck.

Gary was told to slump down into his chair until his face was at the same angle as Mark’s crotch. His head was steered forwards by the hand on his neck, and he smelt the unmistakeable odour of Mark’s already wet boxers.

Next, Gary felt soft cotton brush against his skin as his mouth accidentally ghosted over the shape of Mark’s dick. It was hard and big and, _fuck_ , oh — so — good — for him, and suddenly Gary wanted nothing more than to _see_. To watch. To witness the ‘o’ shape of Mark’s mouth as Gary sucked the tip of his cock like he wanted; to follow the beads of sweat as they travelled down the curve of skin that Gary was kissing; and finally, to watch him come as he licked his tattoo.

Spurred on by this image, Gary impatiently moved his hands to his blindfold/summer scarf and made a gesture to loosen it, but Mark immediately slapped his hand like Gary was a child who’d had one too many cookies from a cookie jar. This wasn’t the way.

‘No,’ Mark said. Just one word. Nothing else. And after some careful consideration, ‘Not until after you’ve had a nice little suck, Mr. Barlow.’

Gary’s reply was deliberately stubborn. ‘Christ, Mark.’

Wrong answer.

Mark magically whipped two more summer scarves from thin air and successfully managed to tie them around Gary’s hands and the chair’s armrests before pressing his hard, wet crotch against Gary’s gorgeous face even closer. It was flushed: just how Mark liked it.

Miraculously, the scarf that covered Gary’s eyes stayed in perfect position and denied Gary the right to see anything at all — even the look on Mark’s face when he then wriggled out of his boxers.

‘ _Suck_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the last of this series of stories. Thanks for reading!


End file.
